Different Kind of Conquest
by crystal-chan
Summary: There are certain days that Romano hates remembering in particular. The goddamn Treaty of Utrecht was one of those. Spamano Flaangst. End of the War of Spanish Succession 1714. Oneshot. Sequel up!


Errrr... Hi? I know I have other things to be working on or something, but at least this is a oneshot. XD And it serves the purpose of getting these two out of my head! GAH!

anyway, I've been in a Spanish kind of mood lately. Odd since I don't have any Spanish classes this semester. But then, this is the first semester in FOREVER that I haven't so maybe it's withdrawal? haha. In any case, if you see mistakes, you native speaker types you, please feel free to let me know! I tried to stick to profanities etc. I've learned as specifically SPANISH and not central american/south american ones we here more often in the USA. XD aaaaah dialects. how I hate thee.

The subject of this ficlet is the aftermath of the Treaty of Utrecht, which ended the War of Spanish Succession in 1714, and wound up officially removing Spain's Italian posessions. O.O So, I mean, it just kinda BEGGED to be written about. if you want to know more about the historical context, which I guess I kinda do draw heavily off of, you might want to go take a jaunt to Wikipedia. they have an EXCELLENT article on this war in particular. (Italian wars are equally fun. I'm considering them for my next project. *dies*)

NERDMOMENT:

The main reason I had to write it-well actually there were two; First, Spain didn't actually declare the war over until the end of the next war in about 1720. For everyone else, it was over in 1714. So that kinda made me think... awwwww... he's pining over Lovi! Second, after doing some research, I learned that while the southern Italian posessions of Spain weren't really put DIRECTLY into Spanish rule until shortly after the consolidation of the Spanish state under the Catholic Kings, (1492!) they had been under "Spanish" control for a long time before that. Spain as a country didn't exist yet, but the independent kingdoms of Aragon and Castile had had at least a controling interest in south Italy ever since around 1000-1100. O.O that's a LONG time. No WONDER they act like they do around each other!

so...yeah. that's what made this fic. Hope you enjoy it. please review! plus also I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

When they'd taken him away that day—left Spain broken and bleeding on his palace floor, Romano knew he'd cried. It wasn't something he could deny to himself like usual. He couldn't see the expression on Antonio's bruised face in his mind's eye, but he could feel the silk of Austria's shirt behind him and the silent, spider-like grasp his little brother held on his right foot. There had been a slight draft, sea-breeze cold against the skin of his wet cheeks even though it hadn't been chilly outside. He remembered it all perfectly; there was no reason _not_ to remember what the world around him looked like, other than he must have been crying so hard that he couldn't see. And maybe that was good, because Spain's voice alone that day was enough to give him nightmares.

"You are taking him from me?" That was not the cheerfully absent-minded Spain that Romano knew so well. This was the matador, the conquistador. His words were cool poison, hanging in the air for his opponents to taste them. He couldn't see Antonio's face then, but he could picture that hate-filled, slow burning expression all the same. The face that had brought lesser nations to their knees. "You are taking _him_ from me?" And then Spain's voice was painful, and rough and raw and a hundred other things it should never, never have been. He wanted to run back and make that hurt stop, even at the cost of embarrassing himself in front of all these people, but Austria's grip was too strong and too tight, hand clasped firmly over Romano's mouth. He couldn't find a way out.

"Yes, Spain." The aristocratic nation sighed, sounding as if he were placating a small child. "The treaties have all been signed. You should be grateful that we aren't taking more from you." There was a horrible clatter of noise then—Spain struggling against whoever was holding him back. It had to be a nation, but there had been so many against them and Romano couldn't remember which enemies were there to gloat at the end and which ones weren't. Had it been England? The Netherlands? Whoever it was, they had been strong enough to keep the war-weakened Spain at bay, and so his caretaker of so many years had been reduced to violent cursing. "Really, must you be so undignified? It's only a bit of land, Antonio." And he didn't have to see to picture the smirk on that damn Roderick's face, or the murderous blaze burning in Antonio's eyes.

"_¡Hijo de puta! ¡Yo te mataré!" _There were the sounds of another struggle, though this time there was a pained groan and Romano had to guess that Spain had landed at least one good hit. He watched the strange, distorted blurs of color fight through swollen eyes and it looked like a shadow play. More muffled conflict, more cursing. Romano remembered praying that somehow Spain would still be strong enough to kick all their asses and they could just stay here, forever. Like it had always been.

The truth of it was he _wanted_ to stay here with Spain. Maybe a part of him always had. Despite the things he may have done or said before, he couldn't deny that Spain was the one who made him happy. Not when everything was falling apart in front of him like this. And sure he threatened to leave and he said Spain was an awful boss, and sometimes Antonio really _was_ awful but, but… at the end of the day there was really no one else Romano could trust so much, no one who had fought harder to protect him, or worked more to please him. If he'd grown used to that, if he wanted it just a little bit, was it really so wrong that the world had felt the need to pull them apart? Did God really hate him so much for that bit of happiness?

"Now now, Spain. Calm down a bit, will you?" the sound of naked steel being pulled from the hilt echoed strangely in Romano's ears and he almost didn't know what was going on until he felt the bite of cold metal against his neck. Prussia's sword against his pulse—the selfsame one Antonio had given Gilbert for his birthday many years before.

"What are you doing," Austria had hissed at his ally, quiet enough that Spain wouldn't be able to hear from where he was kneeling against the marble floor.

"Making sure he cooperates." The bellicose nation pressed his steel a little harder, until Romano felt it slice ever so slightly into the pale flesh of his neck. There was no way he could see at all now, not even the vague colors and blobs of before. He was scared out of his mind and full-out sobbing, image be damned.

"_¡Párate! _Stop!" He thought he'd heard Spain finally pant out. He'd been whimpering too loudly at the time to be completely sure. "_¡Párate!" _Antonio repeated the command over and over again. His voice grew more frantic as the sword bit slowly, painfully deeper. It was the terrified edge to those words that got Romano, slowly, to stop crying—his still-small chest heaving in a multitude of hiccups. Spain wasn't supposed to make a sound like that, so broken and filled with fear. More than anything he wanted to make it stop. He had to be brave. He couldn't let them use him against Antonio like this. It made him perversely happy that Spain actually cared enough about him to be this worried and upset, but it hurt to hear Antonio hurt.

"Kesesesese, are you going to behave now, Spain?" Prussia taunted, the pressure on Romano's neck lessening ever so slightly. He could feel a tiny, warm trickle of blood slipping down his neck to dirty the front of his shirt and wanted to cry again. He didn't. The brief glance he'd gotten of Spain's face was enough to tell him he needed to stay strong.

"What do you want from me," Antonio's stare was directed at the floor, his shoulders hunched, arms held firmly behind his back. Romano thought he truly looked defeated now, even when he hadn't at the signing of the treaty of Utrecht. He hadn't on the battle field, when so many of his men had died, or when his people had begun to fight themselves and he'd been torn with civil war, but he looked it now. And where the hell was France—the one who'd pushed them into this war and lost it for them? Where was the _real_ loser in this war, and why should Antonio have to suffer so much more for it? Romano was reeling with the injustices, one after another. "The world's not fair, Lovi," Spain had told him over and over again since they were children. He figured he knew what the idiot meant now.

"Only what is rightfully ours, _amigo._" The word sounded wrong dripping from Prussia's Germanic tongue. He leaned around Austria to press his lips to Romano's hair as a lover would. Except that it was wrong, because it was only supposed to ever be Antonio who could do that and not—"

"Let me go!" Romano screamed, or tried to. But the hand was still clasped to bruising against his lips and the sword was still hovering not an inch from his neck and his brother was clutching, clutching at him so desperately. He looked into Spain's furious green eyes and wished he could say just how much he didn't want this.

"_P__ara ya de tocar los cojones, Prusia._ If you are going to kill me, then hurry up and do it." Romano's eyes had flown impossibly wide at those words. No—they wouldn't…. they wouldn't kill him, right? The treaties had all been signed, Spain still had his country there was no reason to… to…. He felt like his heart had frozen in his chest at the very thought.

"So dramatic! No one said anything about killing you, idiot. I'm taking Romano, and they're here to make sure you don't try anything. That's it." He could feel Austria's words a hair's breadth of a second before the nation said them, reverberating through that thin chest like a strange sort of bell. The disengaged part of himself, firmly denying that any of this was happening at all, wondered if Austria had simply spent so much time around his music that he'd become part of it. The rest of him was simply flooded with the ineffable relief that at least Spain was going to be unharmed.

"How can you mean not to kill me if you are ripping away my heart?" There seemed to be a moment of holy silence then, with Antonio's emerald eyes searing _meaning_ hopefully into his own brown ones. Somehow Romano knew that those words were meant only for him to hear—all the things they'd never said rolled up into one, melodramatic sentence. Right here and right now it meant more to him than a thousand silly "I love you"s ever could. He felt as if his _own_ heart had been torn out with the weight of them. Then the moment had passed. The rest of their audience made various noises of disgust and disbelief around them. Austria whirled, scoffing, on his heel to leave.

"_Spagna…_" He tried to cry out, but the _Bastardo_'s hand continued to muffle his sobs. "_Ti amo!_" It was the first time he'd ever said it back. The first time, and maybe the last because Spain would never be able to hear it. "_Ti amo!" _he cried out again, but the words were still silent, and Romano's vision was filled once more with tears. It didn't matter. Spain was no longer in his line of sight anyway. They were walking away. Away. _Away from Spain! _God what were they doing, _what_ were they _doing_? He hadn't been far from Spain's side in more than half a millennia—what Gods did these nations pretend to be to separate them now? What—what…. What was he going to do without Antonio? His breath came in shorter and shorter gasps until he thought he would hyperventilate.

"Big brother, please do not cry! Austria's house isn't so bad. He even lets me eat pasta sometimes!" The attempt at consolation was heartfelt, but quite unwelcome. Lovino kicked the foot held in his brother's grip as hard as he could, but Feli held. Since when had his stupid brother become so strong?

"Hush, Italy." Austria chided. Which one, Romano wasn't sure. He hated everyone _so much_ in that instant. He might have even hated his little brother. How dare they. How _dare_ they! Did they see all the work Spain put in to keep Romano? Didn't they see what happened in the Italian wars? Or how Spain had defended him from the Turks at his own cost when he was already so tired to begin with? Did they know how much of Romano's shit Spain as willing to put up with, how warm Spain was when he'd had a nightmare and how…. and how…

Did they know how much he needed… how much the bastard needed him!

"_Lovino!" _There came a roar from the room they'd left behind. Austria and therefore the captive Romano, whirled around to meet it. Prussia re-drew his sword. A short series of thumps and groans and Romano could only assume that Spain's restrainer had been tossed to the other side of the room. The study door where Antonio and Lovino had been lounging when their tormentors arrived was practically torn off its hinges for Spain to come plowing though. He was stamping and heaving-closer to bull than to matador. Quicker than a flash, Prussia's sword was pointing threatening at his throat once more. He'd never seen Spain freeze so quickly.

"Ah, ah ah!" Prussia teased in his macabre way. "Are you forgetting, Spain?" He watched Antonio's mental battle, heard all of it in the confines of his own mind. He saw the hope in Spain's eyes and delight at the fact he'd been able to get away for only a few seconds, the terror for Romano's safety, the hatred for his former friends and the uncertainty of this situation all eating away at the Spaniard's dubious sanity. And he knew the exact moment that fear won.

"Go then, if you will." Romano felt as if he'd been stabbed in the chest. Not because Spain was abandoning him, but because he could see just how much it was hurting the idiot to say such things. He could see it even with his eyes screwed shut against the tears. "But know this. No matter the treaty, no matter the leader that signed it, my war with you will not be over until you return what is mine." Spain's voice was little more than a hiss, but it sounded like the low rumble of thunder on the horizon. He looked every bit the powerful ruler of the seas he'd once been, but Romano was pretty sure it was Antonio talking now, not Spain. "I will find you, and I will take him back. Even unto the ends of the earth, I will find you."

No one said anything for what seemed like an eternity. Then Austria and Prussia began backing away as one unit, the music-loving nation's heart beating fast against his back. Had Spain scared them? Good. He wanted them to be frightened. He wanted them to be _terrified_. He hoped they would be waiting, paranoid in their houses every day for Spain to take his revenge. He wanted to see Spain rise up again and gut these worthless cowards who _dared_ tear them apart.

They managed to get out the front door before Spain's resolve broke, as Romano knew it eventually would, and the man dissolved into shattered sobs that could rival his own. "_No podéis tomar él de mi, ¡no os dejaré!"_ The walls muffled his wailing, but Lovino still knew the words. He wished that he didn't. He felt like someone was carving into his chest, deeper with each syllable. "_¡Lovino!" _God. _Dio, _why did this hurt so much?

"Ugh. What a disgusting display. Over just another conquest. What does he care anyway." Austira ranted haughtily, but his heart still beat irregularly in his chest. Ha. Spain and this bastard had been married once right? Romano wondered if it hurt Roderick to know Spain had _never_ loved him this way. He hoped viciously that it did.

"_Mein gott_ _Österreich,_ you really are a heartless bastard, aren't you. Even the awesome me knows that this isn't really about land." The albino cursed and spat on the ground, "and don't try to get me to say those words ever, ever again, because this is the _only_ place where they are applicable!"

"_Lovi…"_ The sobs behind them were fading. Romano hoped against hope that it was because they were getting further away and not because Spain was crying himself unconscious. Shit. Spain had all those new wounds now. He'd looked so exhausted this morning, even if he'd tried to hide it. Without Romano there to take care of him, how was he ever going to get better? Idiot couldn't take care of himself right. What if—

No. He… he couldn't leave like this. He had to do something. He had to…

"Ow! Little cretin, what are you trying to—" Austria yanked his bitten hand free, _finally_, and here was Lovino's chance. He squirmed away while they were all surprised, narrowly avoiding Prussia's reflexive sword stroke to the face. He knew he couldn't get far, he couldn't stop this. But at the _very least _he could—

"Get back here!" Prussia shouted stupidly after him, he and Austria chasing and panting in his wake. He knew they were faster and stronger by far. They'd overtake him soon, but they'd been weakened by the war too and maybe it would give him just enough time. "Oi, Italy don't just stand there, catch him!" He didn't look back. He knew somehow that his brother wouldn't follow.

"But didn't Prussia say that this isn't about land? Why does it matter?" Romano felt almost like smiling. His brother may have been an idiot but sometimes he had his good moments too. Two Germanic nations were cursing behind him but neither turned to tell Italy off further. They were too busy trying to keep up. Romano's lungs were burning in his chest, whole body shaking as he pushed it to its limit. Just one more step, just….

"Gotcha!" Prussia's hand caught his arm just at the threshold of the front door. Romano let it. He'd gotten far enough.

"_Spagna!"_ He shouted with all his strength, barely loud enough to be heard over the futile wails _still_ echoing from inside. "_S…Antonio!"_ He tried again, feeling a bit of his pride die inside. He'd broken the rules to their little game of cat and mouse by saying that name aloud, but he felt like Spain needed to hear it. It grew suddenly quiet within the space of one heartbeat. And then _not_, because the bastard there to hold Spain down was being abused again and he knew he'd been heard.

"Ack! Little turd, I should gut you right now, what the hell do you think you're—" He cut Prussia off, dimly noticing that Austria had arrived, panting, just behind them.

"Hey_! Cretino!_ Whatever you're doing right now, knock it the fuck off! I don't want you to open this door. Stay exactly where you are, hear me!" There was a soft _thunk_ against the wood of the door. Maybe Spain sitting with his back against it, maybe his brow. Romano didn't know.

"Lovino…" It was barely a whisper against hardwood, but it made him shiver anyway. Did it have to sound so broken?

"Look, Bastard," he started, but his voice gave out and he had to start again. He was half-surprised they hadn't shut him up and dragged him off yet, but maybe Prussia was a bit more humane then he let on. His sword was still drawn and held close to Romano's person, but the older Italian suspected that was more for Austria's sake than anything else. "Look. I've just… I felt like going on a trip for a while, ok?" He was lying through his teeth. He thought they all must have seen it. They usually did. He didn't care. "I mean, taking care of you is really hard work, even if maybe sometimes I _might_ have fun doing it. And the weather here is boring, because every day is warm sunshine, when it's with you. And so maybe your food isn't terrible, but I decided I wanted something other than Paella for once, ok?" Ah, the tears were back. Strange. He hadn't cried like this, _really_ cried in so long. When was the last time…. Before Spain? Figured. "And so maybe sometimes it feels like there's nowhere else I'd rather be than here, but there's just… just these things I have to do, Spain."

"Lovi, please—" The door handle rattled. Romano kicked it with his now Feliciano-free foot.

"You stay!" He shouted, but his voice was free of all venom. "So anyway, there's this thing you might have said a few times to me earlier. Might have been today. Might have been last year, last century, I don't know. I think I heard it so many times I stopped hearing it till today." He took a deep shuttering breath and forced himself to stop crying. He didn't want a single word to be mangled. "So there's that thing. And I think maybe I had something to say back, but you know how I am." Spain did. He knew enough to believe in that, if in nothing else. "So you might have to wait a while, ok? Just wait until I'm done with my vacation. And if you get hurt or sick and don't take care of yourself, if you let yourself die somewhere while I'm gone, I swear to God I will kill myself, hunt you down in the afterlife, and _murder you,_ ok?"

"Roma, that's not very cute." The words were half-laugh, half sob, but they were normal. They were _Spain_. He could trust now that maybe things would be ok.

"And after that... _touching_ display, we can go." Austria growled, looking perfectly indignant and ruffled in his fashionably over-ornamented clothing. Romano let them drag him off now, having said what he wanted to say, but he felt empty. He needed… just one more thing maybe?

"I'll wait for you Antonio!" He shouted, loud enough to make Prussia yelp over top of him and curse about the sudden injury to his "awesome" eardrums. He got no reply. He didn't need one. He was already waiting, after all.

"Ve, then I am happy brother is coming with. We can wait together." Feliciano's voice was a balm to wrap his torn soul in when they reached him further down the hill. Austria had immediately begun doling out punishment for North Italy's disobedience, but he seemed to be a bit too used to it and had ignored the aristocrat in favor of his brother. "Don't worry, you'll see him again soon."

And Italy smiled, and Prussia laughed like a maniac, and Austria scolded and the world went on. Romano was content to do nothing for now but sit and wait, for he could do nothing other.

* * *

Translations: (only putting in the ones that aren't COMPLETELY obvious)

_Hijo de puta! ¡Yo te mataré!- _Son of a bitch! I'll kill you!

_P__ara ya de tocar los cojones, Prusia- _Literally, it means "stop touching the balls already Prussia." But in English it translates roughly to "quit fucking around, Prussia."

"_No podéis tomar él de mi, ¡no os dejaré!"- _You guys can't take him from me, I won't let you!

Spain's Spanish curses are the BEST. EVAR. My friend from Madrid's favorite to use is somethign like _me cago en la leche_, which translates to "I shit in the milk." something you would say when you make a mistake or something unlucky happens. Haha. Antonio, really. Why are you so random?

by the way: "Feliciano-free foot."? try saying that one out loud a few times. haha. I should never have written that phrase.


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